Chunk Reality

Reading Kim Addonizio’s Ordinary Genius: A Guide for the Poet Within, I took her advice and “fell in love” with the first thing I saw when I looked up from the book. Well, shoot, what I saw was my own foot in a black sandal, propped on the corner of the coffee table. Really, Kim? My own foot? Okay, I’ll try. And I glanced at her list of “new words,” another recommendation. Ah, pollex and hallux, meaning thumb and big toe. Okay, I have two big toes. This has to go somewhere.

And it did, other than misspelling pollex, I dove in and came up for air an hour or so later, having landed a good sized poem. Addonizio’s advice isn’t exactly new to me. I’ve long admired “thing” poems that showcase the tangible world and find meaning there. The prompt worked because it brought me close to one thing and its parts. The process is called chunking.

I am relearning this. The world is way to big for my small brain and worried heart. Otherwise, going forward I see so many issues to track that I shut down, concentrate on jigsaw puzzles or crosswords. But shutting down is not a wise option. So I am learning to chunk the worry, pick one issue and pay attention, see if I can help relieve my angst and make a difference, however small, in the chaos that is civilization.

Writing witness poems and stories in our age of political fragmentation, I cannot continue to practice scatter-shot activism. For me, the key issue is climate change. True, it has a thousand moving parts, but it supersedes so much else. If I can’t breathe, I can’t vote. If I don’t vote . . . well, that’s just not an option. Writers can, must, respond to the world as it is. Else what good are we?

#KimAddonizio #ThingPoems

Poems Behave Like Feral Cats

If I dwell on my list of poem titles, I break out in a cold sweat. What am I going to do with all of these poems? Then I take a deep breath and the word SUBMIT appears over my head, a cartoon light bulb. If I believe that writers must share their gifts–and I do–then merely feeding fat three-ring binders on the shelf in my office is wrong. As I’ve been reminded often, no one will ring the doorbell and beg to read my work. More likely that bell tolls for Amazon, FedEx or UPS.

How then to share via the submission process? In our digital world I use a lot of sites/apps/devices. The cost of submitting digitally is about what it would cost in postage, paper copies and manilla  envelopes. And I know that the cloud is not a fluffy freebie. It‘s a huge bank of energy gobbling computers in some remote building, maybe a used missile silo. I don’t really know where my Dropbox is. To me it’s a cute little icon at the top of my screen. Also important to me are Duotrope, Submittable, Word 365, Numbers, my aging Mac Mini, Acer monitor, Logitech keyboard, and Epson printer. So much hardware and software to manage. But it must be doable because I do it.

Once I’ve written several drafts of a poem, it often goes to one of two critique groups, is revised and then added to a Dropbox file “Poems,” and a print copy tucked into a binder, alpha via title. The title alone appears on a six-page spreadsheet (yeah, that’s about 200 individual poems) that shows me if a particular piece is in submission or waiting to venture out. One column also tells me where a poem has already been rejected. No use annoying editors who have already wished me luck elsewhere. Then there’s the red submissions binder where I keep an alpha sort of markets that I routinely contact and a print copy of the spreadsheet (remember, my hardware is aging faster than I am and will one day fail). Once an editor says “HELL YEAH” I eliminate the data on the spreadsheet and note the acceptance on the paper copy in the binder! Whew, I’m tired just trying to explain this, but it works, mostly.

When I finished my MFA, a faculty advisor urged us all to apply for an NEA grant every year until we got one. When would I find time for that? More importantly, that sort of po-biz holds little interest for me. Over the years I’ve been happy to be part of a loosely connected community of writers and that is itself my preferred station in this literary life.

#WritingLife #SubmissionsManagement

All About Poets #5

Typically, my poet focus here is on poets I have known, face to face. Well, what was it Emerson said about consistency? “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds …” Who wants that? Not me. But today I’m thinking about W. S. Merwin. I’ve leaned on and learned from him the only way I could, by reading with great admiration his poems and essays. So, I took him along to a poetry open mic on Friday via a compilation of his work, Migration: New & Selected Poems. I read the last poem in the book, “To Impatience” and his “most famous poem,” (according to Dan Chiasson in The New Yorker, September 18, 2017), “For the Anniversary of My Death.”

Poets and poetry lovers meet in Longmont, Colorado, the last Friday of each month. This month, despite the promise of snow, two friends and I headed ten miles north to join the party. For one thing, the Longmont poets are a delight and the venue is gorgeous. The city of Longmont turned its abandoned firehouse into an arts center. Each month the displays change and the main room turns into a venue for poetry.

And thus the community of poets grows. As I read, those who knew Merwin’s work nodded and smiled. Those who didn’t know, scribbled his name on whatever was handy. So the work of the poet, the work of Copper Canyon Press, the Lannan Literary Fund, about twenty or so living, breathing human beings were united. No one paid us, no one charged us, there was no news flash about argument or deception. The evening was balm to a hurting world. I’d say a world less beautiful after Merwin’s departure, but he joins the vast, energizing cloud of those who keep me sane.

Gluttony

How little resistance I have for books. I walked into the library, slid two novels by Donna Leon into the return slot, a machine that reads the barcodes into another machine that tells the library that I’ve returned these two Guido Brunetti mysteries. What the digital system cannot do is record that I actually read the books. Nor if I liked reading them or not. For all the library knows, I might have used them as paperweights on my desk. Dear Reader, I read them and longed for more.

But I came to the library intending not to carry any books home this weekend. Because if I do, I’ll read them. And I already have poems to critique for Monday morning, a poetry reading to prepare for this coming week, and a hefty assignment for the workshop looming on Monday evening. Like any other addict, my intention means nothing.

Sitting in a quiet corner of the library, I have three books on the table beside my easy chair: James Wood’s How Fiction Works, Mary Robinson’s Climate Justice, and Elaine Pagels’ Why Religion? Gluttony is one of the seven cardinal sins, so I’m a sinner. Mea culpa; wanna make something of it? I also have a hold at another library for Margaret Atwood’s Surfacing, recommended in Adrienne Rich’s Essential Essays: Culture, Politics, and the Art of Poetry, which is, partly read, on my coffee table. Despite the assignments for Monday, I’m going to start with Wood’s book. It’s the smallest one on the stack and if I don’t dawdle, I might finish it before lunch.

Looking Back, Looking Forward

The old year, 2018, was productive and safe, despite the grief of the daily news. I’ve had poems published, made a good start on a new novel, one in a genre I’ve not written before, pared away some distractions from my creative work, and still maintained friendships.

Looking into the deep well of 2019, I intend to keep writing (as if I could stop!), remain healthy and read any book that catches my attention, reserving the right to put it back into the library bag unfinished if I’m not captivated. Life is short, boredom a burden I choose not to bear.

I’d like to write more reviews, be more faithful to this blog, walk more, watch birds more, spend a few days sequestered with my journal and manuscript. I’ll help publish a couple of books of poetry, and I may seek a literary agent for the novel. That has not worked for me in the past–time consuming and generally frustrating–but I’ll consider it.

Here’s to all who visit this site, Happy New Year. Stay awake, don’t hurt anyone, write like it’s a debt you must pay to the universe.

Morning Routine

Rereading poet Kim Addonizio’s Ordinary Genius, I was again inspired by her advice to love what you first see. Such prompts don’t always work for me because I’ve found similar advice in other books on writing. But this time it clicked and here’s what poured out:

Purring and head bumping, Haiku leaps onto my bed to announce the time, 6:00 am, “Feed me, feed me, feed me,” although he has cat chow left in his white bowl. Black cat, white bowl yet nothing as clear as black and white, that sleek shadow on my bed mysterious and familiar. He speaks a tongue I cannot quite mimic and if I do come close, I don’t know what I’ve said, his vowel-rich voice varied and vague to me as Latin, though his language is not dead.
The house dogs think him a marvelous toy, until he takes refuge in a nook too small for them. His only work is hunting—a rare house mouse and the spiders, whom I respect as part of our small biome. I top off the food bowl to reassure him that, yes, ours is an opulent life full of Hills Science Diet for Indoor Cats. He eats two bites, bids me goodbye and makes his rounds: from the front window he supervises sunrise over the lake and takes stock of visitors at the bird feeder. He does not read and if I have a book in my hands, he nudges the nuisance  to clear space on my lap, which he thinks, I think, rightfully his alone for the asking.
And you will understand, please, that living with another species can lead to tolerance and peace. Toward those who see only utility—the rodent haters—Haiku is a demonstrator, demanding his rights to regular feeding, a warm spot on a soft bed, a measure of affection, safety and good health (Yes, he has health insurance.) and clean water in his bowl. Surely you see this house cat, once a stray, has a better life than many a refugee.

All About Poets #4

Michael Macklin was a good friend and a fine poet. We both had MFAs from Vermont College and for several years we were both on the editorial board (that sounds far more formal than it was) of the long-lived poetry magazine, The Cafe Review, out of Portland, Maine. We both had chapbooks published by Moon Pie Press.

Thanks to Michael I learned the pleasure of drinking Tullamore Dew, part of our shared Irish-American heritage, straight up, no ice. When I decided to feature Michael on this blog, I thought that I should again read his poems. Having recently culled my collection of poetry books, I confidently went to the M shelf and … what? No copy of Driftland? That made no sense. I would never have discarded that beloved book.

Well, if idiocy was the inevitable diagnosis, I’d work around that. I went online, found Moon Pie Press, ordered a copy, hit PayPal and send. Whew! Waiting for the book would delay the blog post, but I had no choice. However, I’m not the sort to lose a treasured book, so I went again to the shelf and what? There, nestled beside Montale was Macklin, where he belonged.

I’m not often mystically minded, but I swear that I heard Michael’s laugh. Hide the book until I’d bought another, a wee prank, eh? Of course, Michael was a true son of the Emerald Isle despite his birth in Michigan. When I left Maine to relocate to Colorado, he gave me a teddy bear, two bird feathers—one from a flicker and one from a crow—and said that he had commissioned three crows to attend me in my travels. To this day, a decade after we parted, I often see a trio of crows nearby.

Fate generously allowed me to have Michael in my life for years, but fate is also a mean trickster. Michael died in his sleep when he was volunteering at a residency at our alma mater, VCFA. How awful and how appropriate that he would die in that community of poets. People loved him and he loved people. He taught poetry at the private school where he was also the main carpenter. He left behind his wife, his son, his beloved dog—Murph—and his love for the coast of Maine. Yet, in truth, he’s never far away.

 

 

 

You can find Michael’s book on the website for Moon Pie Press and a copy of The Café Review dedicated to him here: www.thecafereview.com.